Because Janie’s thrown a fit, is being cradled in the kitchen by one who does not think it will do her any good, but does not know what else to do, so sits there, hands full of flesh and hair, staring at the ironic Jesus on the fridge, and thinking Jesus, why is the room empty? Is this the room we were in that time before? I don’t remember it being this light, but it was winter I guess, and you had that white sheet hung up in front of the window. It was a fitted sheet, and the one on the bed wasn’t. I tried so hard for that not to bother me. You have curtains now. You got curtains. Too late.
Why is the room empty? These things move in cycles. Most days some of us are in the room and some are outside, listening at the door; but today nobody wants to be in the room. We are all outside, jostling to hear, ears on the painted wood. ‘Did you hear that? I think it was a woman crying. I think it was a woman laughing. I think it was a woman moaning.’
Which of us will be the one to edge the door open, peer inside, and ask